Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
I grab my phone and pull up her number, pressing dial. But then I quickly disconnect and throw my phone back down, telling myself not to do anything rash. Like demand to know what the deal is with her husband. Like tell her to leave him if he makes her so unhappy, which I’m certain he does. Like beat seven days’ worth of shit out of the bastard for making her so miserable. No. None of that would be good. As I’ve told myself endlessly, it’s none of my business, and I shouldn’t try to make it. So I do something else instead. I call a local florist and have some flowers sent to her office. I decline the card and message. Just the flowers. Just so she knows that I’m thinking of her. Just so she knows I’m still here. And maybe to make her smile. I miss her.
“Dereck’s here,” Pam says through the door.
“Oh, good.” I move away from my desk and give Dereck the space he needs. “How you doing?” I ask, making small talk with him while he taps and clicks away. The computer whizz has been with me since day one, and isn’t much of a talker, as proven with his grunt in reply just now. But I didn’t hire him for his conversational skills.
“Done.” He gets up and trots off.
“Just like that?” I ask, looking between him and my screen. What was that? Five seconds? Ten?
“I’m good with computers. Isn’t that why you hired me?”
“Guess so.” I sit back down and return to those emails, looking at my watch. Four o’clock. I have precisely two hours to answer . . . I glance at my inbox. “Seventy-five?” I flop back in my chair. One-point-six minutes per email. I click the first one open and scan the text. It’s an easy one, answered in exactly fifteen seconds, and an hour later, I’m down to twenty and set to smash my personal best. I want to go for a few drinks this evening with the knowledge that my inbox in empty. It would also be good if I hear from Lo, but I’m not banking on that.
At that very moment, my mobile rings, disturbing my flow, and set to ignore it, I push it away with a flick of my hand. Then I freeze and dart my eyes back to the screen. Forgoing my personal challenge, I frantically make a grab for my phone and fumble with the damn thing to swipe the screen. “Hello?”
“Hi.” Her voice is meek and unsure. “I wanted to thank you for the flowers.”
I get up from my desk and wander over to the window, looking out onto St. Paul’s, my body shrinking with the relief pouring out of me. “I didn’t send a card. How’d you know they were from me?”
“I don’t have many potential culprits, put it that way.”
“Not your husband?” The words fall right out before I can stop them, and I cringe, giving myself a mental slap. Why would I say that? Lo’s obviously wondering the same thing, because there’s silence and it’s damn well awkward. Things between us are never awkward, and I hate myself for making it that way. “I’m sorry, that was out of line.”
“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve been worried about you, Lo. Why didn’t you let me know you’re okay?”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a bit of a week.”
I’m desperate to ask why but, of course, I don’t. “Lunch next week?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
Silence. No reason for missing today.
“I’m glad you’re all right.” I know she really isn’t all right, but just hearing her voice offers me reassurance. I can relax tonight, have a few drinks, and wind down my strung muscles.
“I’d better go,” she almost whispers. “I’ll call you next week, okay?”
“Okay,” I murmur reluctantly, letting her hang up first. I bring my phone to my mouth, chewing the edge. Something’s not right. Or, more accurately, something more isn’t right. Yet my power to ease her misery is limited if she won’t let me. Why won’t she let me? My phone buzzes in my hand and I take it away from my mouth to look at the screen. I groan but bite the bullet. “Amanda,” I breathe, taking a seat, bracing myself. I can’t avoid her forever.
“You haven’t been answering my calls.” She sounds put out. Pissed off, even.
I inwardly laugh. Maybe because I’m terrified what she’ll subtly leave by my bed next time. “Listen, Amanda, I’ve been thinking about us.” I pause a beat, letting the start of my speech sink in to prepare her for what’s to follow. Us? We fucked and ate. Not much of an us, though Amanda clearly thinks differently.
“You’re breaking up with me?” she questions in disbelief.
Breaking up? I didn’t realize we were together.